North Wind Lays Waste
by Akazukin Elle
Summary: What little girls are made of.


North Wind Lays Waste  
  
-  
  
"When love beckons to you, follow him,  
Though his ways are hard and steep.  
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,  
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.  
And when he speaks to you believe in him,  
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden."  
-Kahlil Gibran, "The Prophet"  
  
-  
  
She sat at her desk, staring at her homework; as usual, save for that fact that she wasn't extending the least bit of effort towards the photocopied worksheets.   
  
"Luna," she said, chin supported by her hands, hands supported by her arms, arms supported by elbows on her desk, "what's the word when you, you know, bounce back from things really quickly?" She seemed smaller than normal with her eyes averted and her shoulders slumped, an effect not easily rendered, for she was already a very small girl, with thin wrists and ankles and huge wide eyes.  
  
"Resilient," replied Luna, a small, warm presence at her feet, fur brushing against her ankles and the hem of her pink pyjama pants. "Why, Usagi?"  
  
"No reason," said the blonde girl. "Just wondering."  
  
The night was dark and quiet; she looked out her window, and saw the stars, bright against the summer sky. Her eyes lingered on them for a moment, brow furrowing into a frown; but then she shook her head, and her pigtails fell across her back, and everything was normal again.  
  
Luna leapt onto the bed and watched as the frown was smoothed away from those fair features; and Luna worried, not because worrying was her job, but because she had never seen so introspective a frown on Tsukino Usagi's face.  
  
It was the expression of an adult – weary, dispassionate, distant – but Usagi was not an adult, and it was as foreign on her face as a star is on earth.  
  
-  
  
Little Bo Peep fell fast asleep,  
And dreamt she heard them bleating;  
But when she awoke, she found it a joke,  
For still they all were fleeting.  
  
-  
  
(as usual, she's falling asleep)  
  
School the next day proved to be very difficult – mainly because Usagi spent most of it in a daze; even Minako commented that she seemed dizzier than ever, although Minako also followed this up by giggling that Usagi was just tired from spending the night with Mamoru. (Minako, confronted with the contention that "spending the night" was a rather strong euphemism to use, steadfastly insisted that she'd meant it innocently. Given her tendency to rewrite proverbs, this was probably true.)  
  
But, yes, they worried about her a little: not because she didn't have her homework done – that had "normal" written all over it in red ink – but because you had to get her attention by tapping her shoulder or waving a hand in front of her face. Working to get Usagi's attention wasn't something her friends and protectors were used to do; if anything, she was a good listener when she was awake, and concerned about her surroundings – this possibly owing to nearly three years of constant attacks by nasty-looking creatures who'd as soon eat you as look at you.  
  
(what lambs did you let out today?)  
  
"Have you noticed something odd about Usagi today, Ami?" Makoto asked, tugging at her shirt – the uniforms the school made for people her size were not -quite- long enough for comfort, and it was common to see her adjusting her skirt or shifting uncomfortably.  
  
(not that one, surely)  
  
Ami looked up from her Calculus homework to raise her eyebrows at Makoto. "I don't think she got much sleep last night," the shorter girl replied, shrugging thin shoulders in a "what-can-you-do?" sort of way. "We've only just saved the world. Give her a few days." Ami was very calm about things like this; Makoto had a reaction that was much more, well, reactionary, whereas her friend was immovable about many things.  
  
Makoto glanced down the table, where Usagi was staring at her lunch, and frowned.  
  
(but)  
  
-  
What are little girls made of, made of?  
What are little girls made of?  
"Sugar and spice and everything nice;  
And that's what little girls are made of, made of."  
-  
  
(what are they made of?)  
  
She lifted her shirt up, feeling the fabric slither across her back and her stomach, jaw tense, hands trembling. The mirror stared back at her: pale, resolute, immutable. With a quick tug, her shirt was over her head.  
  
(not sugar, not spice)  
  
And, against the pale skin, purple bruises were splashed with vicious colour against her stomach and her breasts, marked the skin on her hips in neat finger-shaped rows; blood dried on her thighs remained still, flaky, rust-coloured, there –  
  
(nor anything nice)  
  
Her breath stopped in her throat, catching at her vocal cords, but no sound came from her mouth: and there she was, half-naked and bruised and broken in front of her bathroom mirror, nausea climbing its easy way up from her stomach to her throat.  
  
(silence, silence, that's what they're made of --)  
  
Her fingers released the shirt; it fell to the floor in a pile of blue and white. She stood in front of the mirror for a few moments, frozen; and her muscles were immobile, she couldn't move them, and her pretty round face blank, pretty blue eyes wide –  
  
(that's what they're made of)  
  
And then, all at once, she folded in on herself, slumping against the fall and to the floor, tears reddening her eyes and nose, lips trembling. Her face was  
  
(of course)  
  
And in the corner sat Luna, speechless, voiceless, for once less useful than even a regular housecat, because there was no comfort for this and nothing she could do to make it better, nothing at all she could mend by herself. If she'd had hands, she could have taken Usagi into her arms and held her, rubbed her back and rocked her as a mother would comfort a wounded child – but she had paws: small, padded, furry paws which stepped softly on the ground when she chose and which retracted sharp claws when she chose, and she was not Usagi's mother.  
  
(of course)  
  
-  
  
Little Miss Muffet  
Sat on a tuffet  
Eating her curds and whey;  
Along came a spider,  
Who sat down beside her  
And frightened Miss Muffet away.  
  
-  
  
They had a meeting, and sat on pillows in Rei's room. Luna was late. Ami was tired and had circles under her eyes, so they spoke lightly of school, of Rei's last exam in English class, of Minako's latest proverb-gone-awry, of the cookies Makoto had brought, because she always baked cookies when there was a crisis, and this was a crisis, insofar as she had heard. When Luna jumped in, she did not interrupt them like she usually did.  
  
"Well, I thought it was supposed to be like -- "  
  
"These are really good, Mako-chan, you're so good at -- "  
  
"And, and it was really difficult, they asked all these questions on pronouns -- "  
  
"I ran the scan," Ami said so suddenly that everyone turned to stop and stare, because Mizuno Ami Did Not Interrupt Others.  
  
(all these girls on their tuffets)  
  
"The scan?"   
  
(speaking of nothing)  
  
Ami spoke for a very long time, sounding technical and saying things like "vaginal scarring" and "emotional trauma" and "shock" and "blood loss" and "needed stitches" that the others only barely paid attention to. She talked and talked and it soon became apparent that she was deeply distressed, because when the time came for her to stop talking she continued, like a robot: her voice would not shut off.  
  
"Ami," said Rei sharply, and Ami stopped, shutting her words off like a lightswitch and staring at her hands with heat in her face.  
  
(except for their curds and their whey)  
  
"I'm sorry," she said, but she wasn't, because now they had to deal with everything and she had been trying to postpone that, trying not to picture Usagi -- their Usagi -- in the same way she pictured her mother's violent trauma patients, lifeless, lifeless with only a file behind their names, not a million shared ice cream cones and phonecalls and study groups. Not life or death or everything in between.  
  
(it wouldn't take much)  
  
She understood conflict of interest only too well now, where before it had been abstract: And knew that when she became a doctor she would have to see other people's best friends, lovers, daughters, saviours go through the emergency room and she would have to pray for strength when she saw them, because now she knew, where before she had not.  
  
"What are we going to do?" asked Minako, perhaps unfairly, because she barely even knew what was going on, except that a terrible thing had happened and she had to do something, had to act, had to fight because that was what she did.  
  
"How are we going to talk to her?" asked Makoto, because lines of worry were already etching themselves at the corners of her brightmoss eyes.  
  
"Who was it," Rei said, and it was not a question so much as a threat.  
  
(not much at all)  
  
Ami talked about DNA sampling and her computer and margins of error. She talked about scraping blood from Usagi's laundry -- courtesy of Luna --  
  
"Who -was- it?" Rei repeated after ten minutes of this hedging, not cold but suddenly warm, passionate, angry. She did not say the name that was on everyone's lips, but it lingered above them and they all realised with a flash that if it had been him, they would kill him, as they had killed the others who threatened her. She was non-negotiable.  
  
Mamoru, they didn't say, but they believed it because there was no one else.  
  
Ami said a name.  
  
They had been wrong.  
  
(to frighten these poor girls away)  
  
There was someone else.  
  
(except)  
  
"We have to see her," said Makoto after a long, long silence, as she heard the wind slide over the tile roof of the shrine. "There's nothing else to do."  
  
Rei was silent, but there were tears in her dark Japanese eyes, and she was biting her lip -- she looked entirely un-Rei-like, more like Usagi than she'd ever have admitted.  
  
"Yes," agreed Ami, and spoke, for the first time briefly, of what they needed to do.  
  
They would all be all right, because they had eachother: they were the elbows and the hands and the desk, and she would be all right because she had to be all right, and because, more than that, she had them, and herself. So they set themselves a long path and handed Rei a tissue and started to walk, four girls and a cat for one princess.  
  
It would be enough.  
  
(perhaps.)  
  
-  
Mary, Mary, quite contrary,  
How does your garden grow?  
With silver bells and cockleshells,  
And pretty maids all in a row.  
-  
  
(Miss Mary, Miss Mary, what will you say?)  
  
Muffled sobs.  
  
(where have those maids gone today?)  
  
"They tell me, princess, that here on earth things are quite different than they were on Kinmokusei." A pause; terrified whimpering; a sigh of exasperation. "Oh, shut up."  
  
(have they gone without you, then?)  
  
Immediate silence.  
  
(but however could you lose them?)  
  
"Things aren't so different, are they, now?" Still silence, punctuated by the uncomforting caress and condescending maternity in the voice. "People are people, my princess, my pet. You'll see; they're all the same, you know, all full of chaos and brutality. Unworthy creatures, really. Below us, but they control it all." Fondly, "You know that, don't you?" A pause. "Of course you don't."  
  
(Mary, Mary, not so contrary)  
  
The sound of a thin throat swallowing bile.  
  
(where did the cockleshells go?)  
  
A chuckle. "You'll see. Goodbye, princess."  
  
(perhaps you should tell us -- so)  
  
Footsteps.   
  
(is there no silver left to grow?)  
  
And then she's alone in the hotel room, half-bared skin burning against the cool smooth satin of the sheets, and she is grey and bloodied and alone.  
  
(have you nothing left to show?)  
  
But she finds in this terrible place her voice, and, with it, hope. "You're wrong," she whispers to the door, voice rough and throat raw, stomach clenched, lips bruised, hands in strengthless fists by her sides. "You'll see."  
  
(or perhaps quite loud and contrary)  
  
She pulls herself up and dresses, taking care not to break the cuts on her legs or across her chest.  
  
(as always, as always, Miss Mary)  
  
FIN. 


End file.
